


no more dreaming of the dead

by missveils (Missveils)



Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Art, Dreams, Fade Dreams, Illustrations, Light Angst, M/M, andraste is mythal, shartan and solas are the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/pseuds/missveils
Summary: The moon is still high up in the sky when Dáire wakes from a nightmare, the blue light pouring through the stained-glass windows. Feeling the other side of the bed, he finds it empty.--Inquisitor Lavellan dreams of Arlthan, Minrathous, Mythal, Andraste.(All works in the series are self-contained but this is a spiritual successor to a sky full of song)
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Male Lavellan, Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas
Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694902
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Dragon Age Den fic collection





	no more dreaming of the dead

**Author's Note:**

> Dáire belongs mostly to @littlegumshoe (on tumblr) i just share the custody

The moon is still high up in the sky when Dáire wakes from a nightmare, the blue light pouring through the stained-glass windows. Feeling the other side of the bed, he finds it empty.

Dim lights glow across the wall and light up the room as he gets up from the bed and walks down the stairs to the cellar. There, in the light of a dozen floating lights, he finds Solas working on the mural. Just as he has been doing for several nights.

Mythal, crowned with stars and clad in crimson, cradling the city of Arlathan in her arms like a baby, her hair flowing behind her like flames. Around her, elves reaching out to her or grasping at her skirts. Most of them are nobles, but servants too. Without their markings. Then again, the mural is still not finished. 

“I think she will be pleased.” 

Solas turns, surprised to see him up. It’s a rare sight that Dáire cherishes, along with the streaks of paint on his face and fingers. It would just take one gesture to clear them, but Dáire just walks up to him and holds his hand, rubbing his thumb lovingly over cracking paint. 

“You should go back to sleep. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” says Solas. 

Dáire shakes his head and looks up again at the art. 

“Why here? It’s beautiful, but no one will see it.”

Solas brings Dáire’s hand to his lips.

“Maybe. But maybe in a thousand years, if nothing is left of Arlathan, this will always be hiding in its foundations. It makes sense it would be her.” 

Dáire just smiles and pulls him away from the wall, still holding his hand. 

“This place of love will always be here. Come to bed, the birds will start singing soon.”

The moon is still high up in the sky when Dáire wakes from a nightmare of shattered glass and broken pillars. Around him, the rest of the army still sleeps soundly in their bedrolls. If you could count a hundred elves an army.

Ninety-nine. The Champion is missing in the middle of the night again. 

He gets up, his back aching from the hard stone floor of the ruins they are hiding in and the damp on old lash scars. At dawn, they will march into Minrathous to rescue the Prophet. 

“He’s in the cavern with the old paintings,” whispers one of the elves keeping watch, half-asleep, as he walks by them. 

Dáire heads down the eroded steps into the old cavern. There, in the light of torches and a campfire, he finds Shartan, painting on the wall, over the old mural they had found at sunset. 

Andraste, clad in white and crowned in silver, cradling a bouquet of scrolls. Shartan had kept the flaming red hair instead of making it gold. In fact, he seemed to have painted over the chipped paint, redder, almost real fire in this light. The faded ghostly figures still grasping at the woman, untouched. 

“Should you be doing this now?”

Shartan doesn’t turn, but leaves the brush down. Dáire walks up to him and reaches for his hand. When he doesn’t move, he holds it between his hands.

“I was not able to sleep.” Shartan looks up at the image of the Prophet. “I wanted to leave something, so people would remember her.”

Dáire closes the small distance and circles his arms around the Champion, trying to offer some reassurance in the darkest hours before the dawn. 

“Tomorrow, she will rise victorious. And the Imperium will fall and we will finally have a home. But, before that, you should get some sleep.”

The moon is still high up in the sky when Dáire wakes from a nightmare of flying arrows and swords biting on skin. And, while it’s difficult to tell these days, he knows he is finally awake. Awake from those dreams, or memories, or visions, or wishes. 

He gets up and (again) walks down the moss-covered steps, into the subterranean chamber, already expecting what is waiting for him there. 

Yet in the light of the veilfire, he is greeted by a fresh new mural, covering all traces from the previous one. 

Himself. The sky open over his head and the rain pouring mercilessly. His hair floating behind him as three swords pierce his chest. He is holding one of them with his hand as if to push it in or pull it out. Clad in gold. Crowned by light.

**Author's Note:**

> Also have some art by Ellie (@littlegumshoe)
> 
>   
>   
> 


End file.
